


I Have Built a Monument More Lasting Than Bronze

by P_stellaviatori



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-01-20 15:33:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 8,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12435843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/P_stellaviatori/pseuds/P_stellaviatori
Summary: A Captain and her First Officer—  A series of short drabbles. Possible AUs.





	1. Imber

You suppose it doesn’t rain much on Vulcan. 

Michael turns to you when the first drops fall from the sky. There is a look on her face that you rarely ever see, a sparkle in her wide eyes that tells you she’s feeling something deep inside that her Vulcan sensibilities can only barely suppress. You curb the impulse to make fun of her weak attempt to hide her own amazement, but you figure it might be best if you just allow her shields to break away on their own.

Slowly, she places a hand out in front of her, palm up to catch the pitter-patter of the gentle falling rain. She stares at her hand for a moment, watching the drops land and form concentric circles in the pool of water in her palm, before she closes her eyes and tilts her head up toward the clouds. Her breathing becomes shallow and as if she can’t hide her joy any longer, the corners of her mouth angle up into a smile, her lips part and an exhale escapes into a low breathy laugh.

You watch the emotions play out on her face, a mixture of hope and awe and inspiration, and you’re reminded of just how precious these little moments are. You can recite and explain _ad nauseam_ the benefits and shortcomings of emotions, but where it really matters, what needs to be shown and not told, are moments like these. 

It pains you to have to do it, but you can’t stand here soaking in the rain forever. You remember what your grandmother use to say to you as a child, repeatedly and without fail to make you groan, an expression of superstition and absurdity. You echo the old Human saying aloud, baiting that Vulcan curiosity you’ve come to know so well. 

“Come on, Michael. Let’s get out of the rain or _you’ll catch your death of cold.”_

Snapped out of her reverie, she turns to you once more, brow raised in mild confusion. 

“Captain, am I to assume that is a–” 

Before you can let her finish her thought, you grab her hand and pull her toward the cover of a tall tree, smoothing the wet hair away from her eyes and leaning in to place a soft kiss to her cheek. Resting a gentle hand to where your lips just were, you look into her eyes and smile.

“Shhh. Just enjoy yourself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _imber_ — rain


	2. Iterum

You now realize what this is, this predicament that you face, but a solution is just beyond your grasp. 

It starts out like any other day on your starship. You wake from your sleep at precisely 0600 hours. You brush your teeth, take a sonic shower, get dressed and synthesize yourself a light breakfast. You start your shift on the bridge, welcome your Captain with a nod, and at your science station, the sensors detect some form of a subspace anomaly, and the day’s mission now is to discovery what exactly it is and its origins. 

You perform routine analysis of the anomaly and you get the eerie feeling you’ve stared at this readout before. The numbers look vaguely familiar, and before you are able to put much thought into your curious sensation of what you remember Humans call _déjà vu_ , a large vessel suddenly appears before the bridge’s main viewscreen.

Not unlike Lt. Saru, you sense, actually no, you seem to recollect an immediate danger approaching, but your reaction comes too late when the unknown ship attacks, launching a volley of phaser cannons and photon torpedoes. _Red Alert._ Shields are down within seconds, the hull is breached, and the bridge is crumbling in ruin. 

A boarding party beams onto the bridge and you somehow recall from some distant corner of your mind there is one enemy to your right, and you fire, and two enemies to your left, and you fire twice. You remember another enemy, with a hazy image lodged in the periphery of your memory, who beams right before the Captain’s chair, obscured by the Captain herself, who fires once, and you watch in horror as your Captain falls limp against her seat.

You’ve seen this play out before, once, twice, maybe a dozen times now, and with each pass through you find that you are never quite quick enough to save your Captain. Your eyes grow habituated to the scene of her falling just an arm's length away, but a piece of your heart is lost every time. 

Each repetition of this day leads you to the same fatal conclusion, one that you cannot tolerate nor can you ever accept. Captain Philippa Georgiou dies, and the day ends, repeats, and she dies again.

The next time around, at the sound of the Red Alert, you abandon your station with your hand drawn to your phaser. The one enemy to your right and the two to your left are dead, and swift steps bring you standing before your Captain. The gleam of a transporting figure comes into view, and as you fire once in its direction, you see a quick flash of energy coming right toward you. You fall back against your Captain, feeling her gently lower you to the ground, your head cradled to her chest. You look down at the blast wound to your abdomen, then to the dead enemy at your feet, and your eyes close, ending the day.

You wake from your sleep at precisely 0600 hours. You brush your teeth, take a sonic shower, get dressed and synthesize yourself a light breakfast. You start your shift on the bridge, welcome your Captain with a nod, and at your science station, all appears normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _iterum_ — again


	3. Somnium

_You kiss her lips, and she breathes your name. Philippa…_

_The heat that meets your touch clouds your mind in bliss, and you absolutely love it. Smooth skin at your fingertips, you slide a hand up her side and cup a breast in your palm, your thumb drawing gentle circles over her hardening nipple. She whimpers against your mouth, her hot breath fanning across your lips, and you close the distance. Pliant and receptive, her flushed lips move hungrily against yours, her wet tongue finding its place in a slow tango with your own._

_Your hand falls from her breast and ghosts along the tight expanse of her abdomen before slipping down between her thighs. She gasps into your mouth when you grace your fingers ever so lightly across her outer lips, teasing, exploring, marking. You softly run your teeth over her bottom lip as she arcs her body against the brief touch of your finger to her clitoris. Your fingers move farther down toward her opening and you feel it now, the extent of her wetness, and how your own sex throbs at the touch of it. You sample her wetness with your fingers and swirl it over her clit, messaging with your thumb. Her breathing quickens and sweat glistens at her brow, and with your mouth you swallow her cry when you dip two fingers into her core._

_A rhythm is set between your fingers and your thumb, and your mouth moves away from her lips to trail moist kisses down her long neck. Pumping in, you curve your fingers up and forward against her inner wall, and with your tongue lapping its way around her nipple, she laces her fingers into your long hair and she begins panting hard. You feel her walls tightening around your fingers, the motions of your thumb against her clit sending trembles up her body, and she releases a rich breathy moan as she comes._

_Not a moment after you withdraw your fingers from her, she has you lying on your back, pressing you down onto the mattress with the weight of her body, her mouth engulfing yours in a deep and desperate kiss. She has your hands pinned beside your head, her grip gentle but firm at your wrists, and she passes her tongue seductively across your bottom lip. From your lips to your chin to the sensitive span of your neck, her mouth claims you with moist showering kisses. Down to your shoulder, your clavicle, the top of your breast, she stops at your nipple, mouthing it and running her teeth by with a quick nip._

_You’re breathing fast now, and faster still as she descends. Her tongue licks down across your taut stomach, across your navel, and her lips leaves soft kisses in its wake. Her grip around your wrists is gone, only to reappear steady at your hips. Your hands now free, you tangle your fingers into her short hair, and a gasp escapes your lips when you feel a teasing breath against your sex. She kisses the inner of your thighs, the crease at your pelvis, and the feather-light touch of her tongue to your clit has you mewling for more. The touch of her mouth disappears and in confusion, you look down at her between your legs, but then your head falls back when you feel the flat of her tongue press right up against your center._

_A long lavishing lick, flat at your opening, ending with the tip of her tongue flicking against your clit, and you’re moaning in pleasure. She closes her lips around your nub and begins alternating between sucking and licking. Your body shudders and your thighs close in around her head, and when you feel her teeth biting lightly at your clit, you come with a muffled cry of a name against a pillow. Michael…_

You wake at the uncomfortable sensation of damp night clothes sticking to your sweaty skin. You’re unbearably hot under your sheets and you let out the deep sigh trapped in your throat. Pushing all thought to the back of your mind, you turn to your side, shut your eyes and attempt to go back to sleep.

Across the deck, your First Officer, in similar fashion, lies awake in her bed, skin flushed and pulse racing, the taste of your name at the tip of her tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _somnium_ — dream


	4. Otium

Quiet and lights dimmed, that’s the way Michael prefers it. Your eyes aren’t what they used to be, so you have a small reading light at your side, but Michael doesn’t mind it. On your own, you often have music playing, something soft and smooth, but you find the sound of Michael’s gentle breathing amid the silence just as calming. This compromise works well for the both of you.

Leaning back against the cushions, you have in your hands an old favorite of yours, a book you must have read a dozen times before. You’ve thumbed through it so much that the pages are worn and the binding is soft, and there are passages and lines you can recite by memory.

To your right sits Michael, staring intently at an illuminated PADD, engrossed in reading a Vulcan scientific journal on exoecology. Still as a statue and apparently oblivious as one as well, she shows no reaction as you tilt your head in her direction, placing your book away on the table in front of you. Bringing your arm up and over the top of the couch, you lean your head against your palm as you watch Michael read.

On this lazy evening and many like it before, Michael comes to you in your quarters, not as your First Officer, but as someone much closer to your heart. Some nights you share a dinner and on others you simply sit and talk. Tonight, you read together in the comfort of each other’s company, and without a word spoken between you.

You study her face and see the subtle rise of her eyebrow, the light pull at the corner of her mouth, the quick clench of her jaw. Michael is more expressive than she thinks, or perhaps it’s just you who’s come to know her so well.

The faint light from her PADD glows across her face and her chest moves in and out steadily as she breathes. Finally, after what seems like a ridiculous amount time, Michael turns to you, a puzzled look on her face. When your eyes meet, you smile warmly at her and watch in amusement as a small blush creeps up her cheeks. She offers you a brief smile before returning to her reading.

It’s a small victory in your mind, seeing the rare occurrence of a smile on Michael’s lips. Despite all the years of instilled stoicism and practiced indifference, you know that Michael is an emotional being, and also a passionate one. As you work through her defenses, you see it more and more, slowly but surely.

You slide closer to Michael, a fluid movement that ends with you gently laying your head atop Michael’s shoulder.  You note the slip in her resolve, another defensive layer dismantled with the temporary stalling of her breathing and the tension spreading through her body. Her free hand resting on the seat at her side catches your attention, and cautiously you bring your hand over to cover hers.

Lacing your fingers together, the tension in Michael’s body disperses and her breathing returns to normal. You adjust your head, nuzzling closer and more comfortably, and you close your eyes to rest, feeling Michael softly squeezing at your hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _otium_ — ease


	5. Febris

You may be delirious because you begin to hear a ringing. Actually, it is the chime at your door and you decide to ignore it. When it rings again and again you remain silent, you hear a muffled directive on the other side and your door slides open. You lie on your side curled up in your bed, sheets disheveled at your feet, as you hug a pillow tight to your chest and you strain your eyes shut.

The residual effects of your extended exposure to thyleron particles has your immune system running ragged, with a trip to sickbay offering only mild relief for your symptoms. You are sweaty hot with fever, yet feel clammy and languid. Your thoughts are in a bit of a clouded frenzy, which is quite bothersome. As Philippa would say, you feel like absolute shit.

Quiet footsteps come up beside your bed, but your misery takes precedence and you choose not to acknowledge your guest. You feel the slight dip of your mattress from Philippa’s weight, but you move only to hug your pillow closer, determined to weather your misfortune alone.

Her hand reaches for your shoulder, gently pulling you backward so you lie supine. In a show of dejected surrender, you release your pillow and sprawl out your limbs, groaning softly as complement to your lazy movements. Chuckling at your dramatics, Philippa brings her hand up to your forehead, gauging your temperature. You are hot, but not dying hot. Despite your disoriented condition, you debate this, but Philippa ignores you.

Still, a good Captain shows empathy. And so Philippa, a very good Captain, moves herself closer, drawing up the sheets and lying down onto the bed beside you. Instinctively, you turn to her, your previously stubborn resistance now completely forgotten. Scooting closer and closer until you are just a breath away, you sling your arm around Philippa’s waist possessively, nestle your head against the crook of her neck and plant yourself. This is your home now. In this feverish hell, you will die here.

Philippa’s arms wrap around you, pulling you even closer, her chin resting against your hair. Her radiating body heat is a salve on your skin. You breathe in her scent, something light and floral and distinctly Philippa, and sigh against her neck. She shudders slightly at the sensation, whispering in your ear something quiet and assuasive in Malay.

Her hand comes up to brush away a strand of damp hair on your forehead, before her gentle lips take their place against your warm skin. As you tangle your legs with hers, Philippa moves her hands beneath your shirt, massaging soft circles across your bare back. The soothing motions, repetitive and anchoring, keep your mind from drifting and your delirium at bay. So you focus on Philippa’s heat, her scent, her voice, and her comforting touch.

When this fever takes you, as it inevitably will, enveloped in Philippa’s embrace, you will die content. It is only logical.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _febris_ — fever


	6. Gratus

Having avoided the subject long enough, you now find it an inescapable topic of discussion. For years, you have been groomed for command, wanted it even, as you rose up the ranks faster than anyone else aboard the Shenzhou. The closer you got, however, the more you came to question this goal.

But now, you can no longer obscure your thoughts on the matter, because Philippa brings you a bit of news you feel you’re not exactly ready to hear. 

Philippa tells you, with a gleam of pride on her face, that some time ago, she had recommended you to Starfleet Command, and now after minimal consideration, you have been offered the command of a vessel. _You’re being promoted, Michael._

A sentiment you’ve expressed once before on this exact subject, the words come out of your mouth as if there is nothing else you can think of to say. _I’m grateful, Captain._ Three words are all you can muster, and though you are sincere, something in your tone, the apprehensive stir in your posture, has Philippa tilting her head to the side.

She doubles down on her praise, gauging now for your reaction. _Congratulations, Captain Burnham._ With emphasis put on your new rank, you almost cringe.

A moment passes and you realize you’ve been quiet, and a worried look from Philippa has you stumbling out something less than coherent. _I don’t know... I’m not sure... I..._ Only in the confines and privacy of her ready room do you ever show your capacity to be uncertain. And only in front of Philippa do you ever leave yourself open to confusion.

It has only taken you almost seven years to recognize that your steady façade is no match for a determined Philippa. Taking a step forward, her hand comes up to grasp your shoulder. There is a kindness in her eyes, and a softness to her voice. _You are ready._

The conversation abruptly shifts, your obvious reluctance turning quickly into defensive justification of self-criticism. You insist you are not worthy, not experienced enough, not prepared. _I am not ready._

You are adamantly told otherwise. Two hands now on either of your shoulders, Philippa tries to ease her way around your doubt. _You are more than qualified._

You become almost affronted by her assurance, her trust in your ability, and say that you do not yet deserve to advance, that this is not the right time. You can hear your own voice rising to an undignified volume—unprofessional, emotional, illogical—yet determined, if not by current example, to make your point. _I can’t take a command._

Frustrated at your response to good news, uncharacteristic anger now reflected in her voice, Philippa refutes your arguments with her own, and in disbelief questions your behavior. _Why not?_   She doesn’t understand, and a feeling in your chest sinks.

Your verbal options run low, but your desperation reaches an apex, and you do now, not what your mind thinks to do, but what your heart begs to do. 

Closing the gap, you rush your head forward, seizing Philippa’s lips with your own. For a stunned instant, her eyes wide and body tense, Philippa remains motionless until you feel both of her hands firmly cup your face, pulling you closer and locking you in place.

Your mouth dire with passion, you seek to explain with lips, teeth and tongue, what words could not. Her mouth opens for you, and this time you certainly are grateful. Hands against Philippa’s hips keep you from wavering as your heated mouths break for air. _I can’t leave you._

Philippa presses her forehead to yours, thumbs caressing your cheeks now moist with tears. Before kissing you again, her warm breath ghosts across your lips. _Then don’t._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _gratus_ — grateful


	7. Speculum

The voice you hear over the comm as your shuttle is caught in the tractor beam of an unknown vessel has your blood draining from your face. As you exit your shuttle, you recognize the layout of this loading bay, and the ensign at that console, and the lieutenant by the doors, but what you don’t recognize is the strange insignia on their uniforms.

A security officer’s grip around your arm pulls you from your thoughts, and he informs you that his captain would like to see you in her quarters. Guards are posted at her door, to keep you safe or to keep you from escaping, you can’t be sure, and you step through the threshold into a darkly lit room, speculating whether or not you should be afraid as your heart beats dangerously fast.

Against a windowed field of stars, she stands facing away from you, hands clasped behind her back, soft ambient starlight framing her slim body and long dark hair. It’s an idyllic image that leaves your mouth dry and your breath stuck in your throat. She turns to you slowly and deliberately, the expression on her face unreadable, her posture unnervingly stoic. Your mind all but goes blank, your muscles numb and a dull ache in your chest grows. She walks toward you and enters your space, and your pupils dilate, heart rate increases, and breathing accelerates. You’re unsure if this is real, if she is real.

She reaches for you, a hand against your cheek, and you’re startled by the warmth of her touch, solid evidence that this woman standing in front of you indeed exists. Callous fingers trail down the side of your face and come to a stop at your neck, firm and possessive, and your skin is on fire. She leans in close, her hot breath fanning over your mouth, and in the soft voice you’ve longed to hear for so long, she whispers to you, _“I’ve missed you.”_

You miss Philippa as well, so much that it pains you to remember her, but this woman is not your Philippa, not the one you knew and not the one you lost. You see it and you feel it, and you know that logically this woman is someone else, that this ship and this universe is not your own. But none of this matters when she grabs your hand and laces your fingers together, and none of this matters when she plants a soft kiss to your forehead and you feel the start of tears welling in your eyes.

None of this matters when something deep inside of you disconnects, like a thread severed from reason and reality, and the preconception that you don't belong in this parallel world vanishes, and you hear yourself weakly replying, _“I’ve missed you too.”_

It’s not how you’d imagined when her lips come in contact with your own. It’s not modest or gentle, but instead immediately dominating, crushing, and desperate. It has you feeling frail in your knees when her tongue passes into your mouth, and the taste of her, something you’d only ever dreamt of, leaves your sex throbbing and growing wet.

The fervor of her mouth and the heat of her hands moving up and beneath your uniform top has you stepping backward, but she latches on to you. Your back hits the cold hard flat of a bulkhead, the impact forcing a gasp from your mouth, and her teeth bites down on your lower lip drawing blood. The metallic taste fills your mouth, and hers, and you groan in pain and in pleasure. 

She pushes against you harder, her hands now at your hips and at the hem of your pants. You run your hands up her body and through her hair, feeling the softness of her locks between your fingers as one of her hands snakes down your front. In the back of your mind, a lingering thought that this is wrong, that this should not be happening, that this woman is not your Philippa and you are not her Michael, is extinguished at the first sensation of her fingers sliding across your slick folds.

There is no pretense now, no tender coaxing or gentle guidance, when she presses her thumb roughly against your clit and plunges a finger deep into your center. She pumps in and out, your clit rubbing against her palm as you thrust forward against her hand, and you’re already so wet that a second finger, and then a third, enters with ease. Breathing shallow and fast, you slant your head back, giving room to her mouth at your neck and her teeth against your skin.

As she bites down hard at the soft crook at your shoulder, marking you as hers with punctured skin and your blood fresh on her lips, you feel the sharp spasm of an orgasm, and you pant and gasp a name in betrayal, _“Philippa…”_

You find yourself trapped beneath her forceful body on a large soft bed, writhing in pleasure against her persuasive fingers and expert tongue. This woman, aggressive and calculating, whose bare scarred skin is flush and hot against you, is not your Philippa, who is kinder and softer and compassionate. But it feels too good to have your tongue in this woman’s mouth and to have her fingernails scraping welts down your back. She holds you as you rest and as you recover, her arm thrown around you possessively, and you think, logic be damned in this universe of mirrors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _speculum_ — mirror


	8. Cura

The sickbay lighting is a bit harsh against your tired eyes, but it’s nothing compared to the sharp ache in your back and the ringing in your ears as you try to sit up on your cot. During the away mission, a large indigenous creature snuck up behind you, charged and threw you against a very solid cave wall, the impact strong enough that you’d thought you’d broken a few ribs. Turns out you did and despite the miracles of modern medicine and the ability to almost instantaneously heal simple bone fractures, there’s still a bothersome dull pain in your body that you’ll need to sleep off.

Carefully swinging your legs off onto the side of the bed, you hear the sickbay doors slide open behind you and swift footsteps heading in your direction. You’d turn around, but your neck is stiff and you just don’t seem to have the energy to move much right now.

Michael maneuvers around your cot and enters your space to stand in front of you, her concerned voice asking, “Captain, are you alright?”

“I’m perfectly fine, Number One,” you answer as casually as you can, but you know how exhausted and disheveled you must look.

Michael takes a small step closer and sends you a strained look, not quite believing your assertion. “You broke six ribs, punctured a lung, and suffered a concussion. I would hardly call that ‘perfectly’ fine, Captain.”

You forgot about the punctured lung, and maybe that concussion explains your brief lapse in memory since you forgot about that injury as well. In any case, you brush it aside, hoping you’re not forgetting about anything else important, and you put on the cheekiest grin you can muster, “Oh, it was nothing I couldn’t walk off.”

“You fell unconscious,” your First Officer promptly corrects, and you take note that her concerned look has not yet left her face.

It’s getting harder to keep yourself sitting upright with the soreness in your back, but you make an effort for now, as you try to lessen Michael’s concern with an earnest smile. “Yes, well, I had nothing to worry about with you at my side.”

“It would have been quite impossible for you to worry since you were unconscious.” Michael is a stubborn one, you know that for sure, and you can’t help but let the smile slowly slip from your face.

“Michael, listen. You completed the mission in my stead and now we’re all safely back aboard the Shenzhou. And the good doctor here has gotten me all fixed up, good as new.” You can’t fault her for being distressed about your wellbeing, and if anything, you find Michael’s no-nonsense cautiousness regarding your safety endearing. But in this line of work, where danger can lurk around every corner as you float around in a hunk of metal across the cold, dark vacuum of space, a little bit of optimism goes a long way.

Your knees come in contact with Michael’s as she takes another step toward you, and you see up close now that her eyes are watery and her body tense, and she says to you solemnly, “I’m sorry, Captain, but it’s no lighthearted matter when the commanding officer of this vessel gets seriously injured. When _you_ get injured.”

Another soft smile forms on your lips and you grab Michael’s hand, giving it a light squeeze. “No, of course not. But I am lucky to have you looking out for me.”

“I should have seen it coming... I should have gotten you out of the way...” Michael closes what gap there is between you and brings her arms around your waist, her face nestling into your neck. She mumbles quietly against your skin, “I was worried, Philippa.”

You hold her close, pulling her down with you when you lean back onto the bed, as you finally ease the ache in your back. Your lips against her hair and a soothing hand at the back of her neck, you whisper, “Don’t be. I’m not going anywhere.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _cura_ — concern


	9. Periclitatio

On the 25th  anniversary of the launch of the _U.S.S. Shenzhou_ from the San Francisco Fleet Yards orbiting Earth, you find yourself at the center of a celebration high in spirits, music, and booze. It’s not a raucous affair, but the music is turned up enough that you talk a little louder and the drinks strong enough that you feel the slight flush in your cheeks.

Commander ch'Theloh, charismatic as ever, recounts a tale of bravery and cunning to a group of impressionable young ensigns as you stand idly nearby with a drink in your hand, only partly listening when you spot an all too still figure across the room. Excusing yourself from your First Officer’s ever-engaging storytelling, you steer your way through the crowd and approach this person who’s standing alone, pressed against the wall. “Are you not enjoying yourself, Lieutenant?”

You catch Michael by surprise, her body tensing and her back straightening as she stands at attention to your voice. “I… not at all, Captain. I find gatherings like this to be quite… fascinating.” Unlike most others in the room with at least one drink in their clutches, Michael has her hands neatly clasped behind her back, looking as stern as you’d expect from a Vulcan in a situation like this.

“Hm? How so?” Your interest is piqued and you raise your eyebrow at Michael teasingly, bringing your drink to your lips with a small smirk.

“The chance to observe my crewmates partaking in behavior that's… very different from when they’re on duty is rather—,” Michael pauses for a moment when she sees Lt. Ahkten speedily downing several cups of an alcoholic beverage while others around eagerly shout and cheer him on, ”—compelling.”

A soft chuckle escapes your lips as you retort, “You mean watching them actually enjoying themselves?”

Michael furrows her brow at you, not quite catching your jest, “I wouldn’t say that exactly, but there is certainly more… laughter.”

You smile at Michael’s astute observation, following her gaze to your officers having perhaps a little too much fun, and add, “I’d say that this,” and you hold up your drink in a mock toast to your happy crew, “helps a quite a bit.”

Studying the drink in your hand, Michael’s eyes intent on figuring, she makes a logical assumption and asks, “Is that wine?”

“Mmm, yes. Merlot, to be precise. But the others are mostly drinking beer, and some are taking, hopefully responsible, shots of other harder liquors, but I usually prefer a nice glass of wine.” You turn from watching your crew and meet Michael’s inquisitive stare, “Have you never had any? Wine, I mean?”

“On Vulcan, consuming alcoholic beverages is not as popular an activity as it seems to be on Earth,” Michael answers matter-of-factly, and something about her uneasy posture tells you you’ve breached a topic with Michael that she astonishingly knows little about.

An opportunity presents itself to you and you take it, a wide grin spreading across your lips. An experiment for the ages, as you offer Michael her first try of alcohol. “Here. Try a sip.”

You hold your glass out to her, gently urging, but not demanding she take it. You would never force Michael into doing something she’s not comfortable with doing, but you dare say that she appears intrigued, and your fine sense of judgment is proven once again when Michael takes the drink from your hand and brings it to her mouth. “It’s… good. Quite good. Rather agreeable, actually.”

You can’t help but notice how Michael turns the glass, and carefully avoids touching your lips marks on the rim as she drinks. “Is it now? We’ll have to get you better acquainted then, perhaps with some more variety? Would you like that?” 

Standing back against the wall, you playfully bump your shoulder against Michael’s, and she takes another sip from your wine before handing it back to you. As you shift your gaze to watch the party and your crew, you catch in the corner of your eye a small smile on Michael’s lips as she responds, “Yes, Captain. I’d like that very much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _periclitatio_ — experiment


	10. Optimismus

This derelict shuttlepod is stranded and in a state of disrepair, with life support at minimum, communications down, and warp drive and thrusters offline. You had hoped to find a med kit when you and the captain had beamed aboard, but the vessel was barren, its supplies stripped and systems damaged beyond repair by its previous occupants when they had evacuated.

Offering a steady hand at her shoulder, you crouch next to Philippa as she’s sitting on the floor, her back pressed against the wall. You look down at her side, at the large metal shard stuck through her abdomen, watching as her hand flutters lightly near her wound, afraid of touching it. Philippa is riddled with smaller bruises and cuts, her uniform tattered and scorched from the explosion in the enemy vessel, and you assume you must look quite similar. But you pay no mind to your own injuries when you hear Philippa loudly hiss in pain.

Quickly assessing Philippa’s wound, you find that there’s excessive bleeding with the metal fragment cutting rather deeply into her flesh and lodged within her bowels. You’ll have to remove the shard, but the bleeding will only get worse once you do, with sepsis a possibility later on. “I have to remove this, Captain.”

The fragment itself is thin and sharp around its edges, and gripping it with both hands proves a difficult task. Ignoring the slicing pain in your palms as you grasp and pull, and Philippa’s strenuous heaving, you drop the metal shard to the ground, letting it clang against the deck, and you desperately bring your gashed hands to press against Philippa’s gaping wound.

“Michael, you need to seal it and stop the bleeding,” Philippa says to you through clenched teeth as she looks down at herself. Leaning to her side against one arm, she gestures awkwardly at your waist with her free hand, “The phaser.”

Reaching toward your belt, you clasp the phaser as firmly as you can in your trembling hand, adjusting it to one of its lower settings. “This will stun you.”

Philippa nods, her eyes shut tight and her breathing fast and shallow. You guide her down so she lies supine against the floor, and you angle yourself over her, keeping pressure against her wound with one hand. She takes a deep breath in through pursed lips and tells you, “Do it.”

The sounds of the phaser beam searing into Philippa’s flesh and her painful, stuttered gasp fill your ears, and your chest tightens and your throat goes dry. You work quickly, but carefully, cauterizing shut the lesion within seconds, and by the end of it, Philippa lies motionless, her body limp from unconsciousness. There is a cut above your brow, and you feel the drip of blood flow down the side of your face when you close your eyes in relief and stabilize your breathing.

You place your fingers at Philippa’s neck, checking her pulse and finding it elevated, but strong. You take the time to check over the rest of her body for any other serious injuries discovering only minor ones that could be dealt with later. The blood on your hands begins to dry, and you let yourself rest for a moment.

The space in the shuttlepod is small, barely accommodating to you and Philippa situated on the floor, and as life support fails, the air grows colder by the minute. You’re unsure whether or not the _Shenzhou_ is aware of your location, or if your distress signal ever made it off the destroyed enemy ship, but there is not much else you can do now but wait.

Sliding your body down onto the floor, you lie on your side parallel to Philippa, moving closer until your bodies touch and you feel the heat emanating through her battered uniform. You drape a protective arm over her waist, mindful of her wound, easing your head against her shoulder and shutting your eyes.

The light waking movement of Philippa’s turning head jolts you from your very brief rest, and at once, you’re sitting up, leaning over Philippa with cautious concern in your eyes. “Captain.”

Her eyes slowly open, her lips gently moving as if to speak. You lean in closer, tilting your ear toward her mouth to better hear her words, and Philippa groans, “Damn, you did a real number on me with that phaser.”

Pulling back, you extend to your captain a rebuking look and say more sternly this time, “Captain!”

There’s a smile on her face, and one part of you is elated that’s she awake, while the other is baffled by her constant optimism and jocosity. “Relax, Michael. I’m fine. Or at least, I think I am.”

“You are still critically wounded, and the _Shenzhou_ may be hours, if not days away. I don’t see how—,”

“Lieutenant!“ The exacting tone of your commanding officer stops you in your place. Philippa reaches a hand out, taking hold of the side of your neck and pulling you down until your forehead comes in contact with hers. You look into her dark eyes, never having seen them this close, and any doubt left in your mind is quelled when she quietly breathes out, “Stop worrying. We’ll get through this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _optimismus_ — optimism


	11. Imago

It’s a strange sensation to travel through a temporospatial anomaly. What in reality lasts the span of only seconds, in your mind feels timeless, and you see everything before you, open and endless like a bright void. Your mind’s eye is now privy to the thread that connects the endless expanse of space, and every corner of the galaxy just a simple thought away from being known and seen by you. Hundreds, thousands, millions of light-years away, every place and every object is as clear to you as if you were to hold out your hand in front of your eyes. There is nothing that escapes your sight.

It’s indescribable, this feeling you have now, like a bright jolt of omniscience striking your mind with full force, yet there is no pain or recoil, only the sensation of calm and oneness. A greedy man would feel powerful, a wise one humbled. You, for now, are simply in awe.

In far places you’ve only now been made aware, alien figures cross your vision, going about their day, unaware they are subjects of your all-seeing sight. Your voyeurism is unintended, but difficult to avoid. You see all, but none see you.

You dare travel with your mind’s eye to the one place that haunts your dreams, to the nameless binary star system where death befell thousands of your fellow officers, and where a once truly happy phase of your life was abruptly brought to an end. You find this familiar place filling you with a sense of loss that hollows your heart.

Debris floats lifelessly across the battlefield, Starfleet and Klingon alike. You spot the derelict _Shenzhou_ crumbling and dilapidated, a cold and broken husk of what was once your home. A flash before your eyes, and the battered ship is gone, replaced by the sight of a bustling crew on a pristine Starfleet vessel bridge, the bridge of the _Shenzhou._

The swift sound of the turbolift doors opening has you turning around, eyes wide. The captain of the _Shenzhou_ arrives onto the bridge, Captain Philippa Georgiou. Your urge to reach out and touch her, to feel the warmth radiate from her skin as proof that she is real, is unfulfilled. You are far removed, a silent ghost of space and time lingering in places you see, but don't fully understand.

Philippa stands in front of you, but does not see you, her gaze passing through yours and connecting with another. You turn around and see yourself, or someone not exactly yourself. This other Michael is like you from the past, but now in the present, only she is still first officer of the _Shenzhou_ , and you are not. You look around this bridge, and recognize all these faces, as they were before the war. They are happy and alive. Philippa is happy and alive. And the other Michael, as you stare at her with envy, is fortunate.

Another flash, and you are on the same bridge, but the air is colder and the faces far grimmer. Aboard this _Shenzhou_ , Philippa sits at her captain’s chair, her hair cut short and a long scar runs down her neck. This Philippa is different, hardened and callous, now stoic to a fault. You glance around and do not see your counterpart, but you do notice that Saru now wears command gold and bears the rank of commander. Here in this timeline, you must have died, and the war still rages on.

A flash again, and you find yourself standing beside your other self, just an arm’s length away. Philippa stands from her chair, and walks toward your counterpart, brushing swiftly through your spectral form. This other Michael has her hands folded behind her back, and with a subtle motion, Philippa reaches out so their hands touch ever so slightly, and a knowing glance is shared between them before the two retreat to the captain’s ready room.

In a final flash, you’re back on the _Discovery_ , gasping for breath as a bright light above you fills your vision. What you’ve seen is difficult to parse: versions of yourself and versions of others, in war and without war, unchanged and changed completely. Your pupils are slow to constrict, to acclimate to the moving light hovering over your face, while your muffled hearing grows clearer, as the voices of medical staff saturate your ears.

You’re told the _Discovery_ had encountered a temporospatial anomaly, and that your quarters had happened to pass through the center of it as you slept. In a state of unconsciousness, you had seen the universe, versions of the universe and everything in between.

On your secluded sickbay bed, you turn to your side, grateful for the dimmed night lighting and the bit of privacy afforded to you. You shut your eyes as hard as you can, but it makes no difference. You try to see what you’d seen before, those infinite images played out inside your mind of a face, such a familiar face, that looks to you with warmth and affection.

But these images that now come to you are blurred, dissipating into the vaguest of moving shapes and lights and colors, and your eyes grow moist and your chest aches, and your head pounds until you can take no more.

In your sleep, and as time eases to a halt as you dream, Philippa’s face finally appears again before you as clear as day and as lovely as ever, and you say to her, as your hand brushes against her soft cheek, what you’ve been wanting, needing, to say since that fateful day, _“I’m sorry.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _imago_ — echo


	12. Spes

You gaze out into the stars, but your eyes are left unfocused. Your mind is nebulous, and your thoughts vapid and free floating like gas and dust, and it would take millennia until gravity pulls it all together. And the air that surrounds you, like a stifling vacuum, grows quiet and still and achingly cold.

Standing in your quarters like this, lights dimmed, the passage of time escapes you. There is no sun on the horizon, arching across the sky as day comes and goes. There is only the black of space, and the stars so far away, they hardly seem to move. But you fly closer and closer and ever closer—not your ship, just you—until you reach the molten core of some distant sun, and everything turns white and searing hot.

Arms slide around your waist, supple and firm, pulling you back to safety, to the confines of your quarters, and you open your eyes to see a tranquil field of stars just beyond your window, not the flaring center of a dying sun. A familiar body presses close to you, against your back, and warm lips come to rest at your neck, soft and tender.

Michael is always soft and always tender.

There is an impulse though, something deep and lingering that tugs at the back of your mind, for these lips to make way for teeth that bite and draw blood, for these arms to wrap around you harder and crush, to drag you into the heart of a supernova, and leave you there, alone and in flames.

But you wash it away, these urges, like time and time again, and as rain would flood your island birthplace clean come every storm, and instead, you take hold of one of Michael’s hands and bring it to your lips, kissing her palm.

She guides you to your washroom, and when she begins to undress you, you offer no resistance. Michael sheds her clothing too, and you stare at your uniforms and badges on the counter, folded neatly and with care, until you’re led away into the shower and the frosted plane slides shut, and all you see is mist.

The water is warm, soothing and consistent, and you imagine yourself up to your neck in it, soft lapping waves, sand between your toes and the smell of salt and sweat and fruit clinging to your skin. The sun shines, glistening off the surface of the water, and it’s bright, too bright to look at, so you close your eyes tight, but the blaring white seeps through your eyelids and blinds you.

You’re falling into the supernova again, arms outstretched and you reach out as far as you can. There’s a starbase ahead of you, and a planet even farther out in front, but they’re too far away. All those people, your crew— _your family_ —and you try to reach them, you really do, but they’re caught in a rippling shockwave of fire, and then it’s too late, and they vaporize before your eyes.

The wind is forced from your lungs and you choke out a gasp, when Michael makes you come with her mouth. She works you down, slowly and gently, and you’re spent and leaning against her, limp and breathless and weak in your knees. She trails kisses up your body, attentive fingers to your skin, and she holds you close, until the blinding white in your eyes is gone and you can finally see again.

Michael wraps herself over you, shielding you, her head to your breast and she’s listening intently to the beating of your heart. The weight of her, the warmth of her, the feel of her close, anchors you and keeps you from drifting away, from succumbing to the heavy burden of your memories. You’re here with her now, tangled limbs and messy sheets, bare skin and hot breaths—you’re alive, and Michael is alive, and your ship is safe.

Today you remember what each year brings to you on this particular day, and it hits you hard every time, the pain and the loss and the desperation... and all that senseless death. Today you remember that the universe can be cruel and unforgiving, and in an instant, it can take everything away and leave nothing behind but distant memories.

But tomorrow you will return to your normal self, pose a smile on your face as you walk onto your bridge and take a seat at your chair. Tomorrow you will remember who you are and why you’re still here.

Tomorrow you will gaze out into the stars, your eyes focused, your mind clear, and there’ll be a warm hand in your hand, and your heart will fill with hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _spes_ — hope

**Author's Note:**

> _Exegi monumentum aere perennius. "I have built a monument more lasting than bronze." — Horace, Book III, ode xxx_


End file.
